Picture Perfect
by babyhilts
Summary: It's been eight days since Mary's death. Dean's hero seems to have died along with her and the only thing the young Winchester understands is that he wants him back. A oneshot I wrote for a challenge on Supernatural.tv. Please review, as I love em:D


A/N: This was a one-shot response to a challenge on Supernatural.tv. You had to write about what the Winchesters did right after Mary's death. So this takes place 8 days after the fire. Just a short little scene, hope you enjoy. Feedback would be very much enjoyed :D

Disclaimer: Just doing this for fun

**Picture Perfect**

_**By: Babyhilts**_

Periwinkle snapped under the pressure. Forest green and magenta were the only other casualties to date. A small, golden haired boy scooped the two halves of the crayon and when no one was looking dropped them into his pocket with the others. The next victim would be fire engine red. Dean Winchester was drawing a masterpiece. Although his chubby fingers gripped too tightly and pressed much too hard, he continued to color. The sheet had once been blank but in another five minutes it would be complete. He would hand it to his father and they would smile the both of them, at the wonderful picture. Sammy would gurgle but sometimes that counts too.

Sorrow fingered the air, chocking the delicious smell of pancakes and coffee from its patrons. The child with blonde curls knew nothing but the poignant image reflected in his father's eyes. His hero sat still, unmoving except to take a thoughtful sip of coffee. Defeat worn across his heart like rusted armor; his cape had burnt up in the fire. He would not fly anymore.

The crayon worked harder, saying words that a four year old did not know and could not muster. Wax dug viciously into the paper until red shavings layered the drawing. Dean frowned and gave a frustrated swipe. The paper wrinkled, so he used his hands to iron it out. He wouldn't stop because his dad was depending on it. Just a few more scribbles and his hero would rise from the ash once more.

The youngest Winchester slapped playful hands onto his applesauce. Hazel eyes shot up. Dean held back a whimper of uncertainty as he watched his baby brother. Restrained in the highchair, Sammy had upturned his breakfast and managed to get it everywhere but in his stomach. The baby giggled and cooed an innocent grin across a toothless mouth.

John lifted his gaze. The coffee had suddenly become uninteresting.

"Come on Sammy."

Strong, callused hands wrapped protectively around the infant. With a soft sigh, Sammy was seated on his father's knee. Breakfast drippings left their mark on his Levis' before hitting the tiled floor. John ignored it. He wetted a napkin and gently wiped his youngest down. The baby relished in the attention and gargled his pleasure.

"You're wearing most of your breakfast there, little man."

The words were forced. They were meant to be light but still, no Winchester was fooled by the lie. Dean stared, transfixed by the scene before him. His father and baby brother, sitting in the same booth, playing the role of a happy family. Sammy was not playing, for all the infant knew, his family still was happy. The four year old however knew that was not right. Although Dean was unsure what was wrong with this picture, there was something wrong with it just the same. Distorted, just slightly, this impression of melancholy did not fit well with the severity of the situation.

Eight days ago the world had been flipped and in the process the lives of all the Winchesters in Lawrence, Kansas had been altered forever. Since those eight days John had not smiled. He never asked Dean to toss a football around anymore. Some days John didn't even want to go home, to the seedy motel just beyond the park. Yet he always returned, just for one more night in the dismal town.

Dean swung his legs beneath the table. He heard the light breathing of a sleeping, little brother and smiled. The fire engine red had been traded in for sun flower yellow. That was the only color left; the final touch of detail to a child's precious artwork.

Dean swung his legs a little more. His left one went rogue, kicking the front right one of his father. Toe connected with bone. The young boy's heart thudded along the wall of his chest. Hesitantly he removed his gaze from the picture and towards his father.

"Dean," John rubbed vigorously at the sharp sting winding up his leg. "What are you doing?"

The blonde head lowered. Hazel eyes stared, -unfocused with the rise of tears- at his small, trembling hands. Dean tucked them in his lap where his father couldn't see. With a short sniff, he stopped the tears from falling.

"Sawy, it was an acc…accident."

The sputtered reply was all the four year old boy could think up. It had been an honest reply but one his father wasn't looking for.

"You haven't touched your pancakes. That's it until lunch Dean, after this we have to hit the road."

Dean blinked back tears once again. His eyelashes felt wet and sticky but he didn't dare wipe anything away. He wasn't a mere infant like Sammy was. Not anymore.

"I'm not hungry."

John's face pinched with disbelief.

"Daddy, my tummy hurts."

For added proof, short arms wrapped around the aforementioned stomach and began to rub soothing circles. Dean's eyes flickered from his father to the untouched plate of pancakes. Fluffy saucers, piled high with butter and drowning in maple syrup; they just sat there. Any other child would have loved such a delicious breakfast but not Dean and this fact had been noted by John.

"Its fine but if you're not going to eat then we've got to head out. Come on Dean, get your crayons together while I take Sammy and pay for the bill."

Crayons fell, all for one and one for all back into the shoebox. Dean wiped the table clean of every waxy stick before tucking the container under one arm. With one last quick squiggle of yellow, the boy took the picture into his hands and carried it out of the diner.

Sammy was getting tucked into his car seat when Dean stepped beside his father. The man huffed as he strained to pull the protective straps into place without startling his youngest awake. To have Sam asleep for even an hour at a time was heaven for Dean and his family. So, when his dad had finished and it was almost his turn to slip inside the Impala, he held out the photo.

"Dean, are you getting in…"

John turned to his eldest who had remained unusually quiet nearly all morning. In his tiny hands a wrinkle, crayon scratched page dangled. A small smile, the first in days, lit up Dean's face as he made the paper shake teasingly at the older man.

"I did it" he whispered, eyes flashing to Sammy and then back to his father. "It's faw yew."

"For me, huh? What is it son, another racecar?"

The child's smile grew a little wider. With a hurried shake Dean replied "Nope. It's better. Look at it daddy."

Excitement bubbled over and the boy pushed the paper delicately into his father's hands. Fingers outlined the heavily etched wax colors. John's eyes played across the familiar images. His mouth went dry. With a desperate flip, flap of his tongue, he tried to bring some moisture back. Without any saliva it would be impossible for him to swallow the heart wrenching lump wedged in his throat. The ball of pain tickled his uvula and he wanted to get sick. He squeezed his eyes shut to hold the tears at bay. Hands trembling, the picture shook and stared at him. Echoing nightmares from that tragic November night only days before.

"Do yew like it daddy?"

Dean's eyes, swelled with anticipation. One foot to the next, he shifted his weight, the excitement building with each step. When his father peered more closely at the photo, the young boy knew it would only be a few seconds before he saw that smile again. The hero he missed would be reborn, stronger than the last time he'd seen him. Upturn those lips and his hero would soar.

However, as the callused hands of the eldest Winchester shook, the small child knew something was wrong. Deep sadness warmed his father's face, melting his lips into a frown. Dean sucked in a nervous breath. With short fingers, he touched the rough leather of the older man's jacket. The scent of Old Spice overwhelmed his senses. Coffee and cigars mingled with the after shave enveloped the boy and pulled him closer. He was so close and yet, too far to reach.

"Do…do yew tink mommy will like it?"

John's head whipped around. The hands that gripped the page held tight and with no respect to the artwork. Paper crinkled and Dean flinched. His father's eyes were upon him and not in a way that made the young boy feel safe. His own hazel orbs flickered to the baby in the car seat before raising to meet his dad's.

Dean knotted his hands in his own windbreaker, winding the drawstrings around his finger. The look his father wore was the same he had displayed only two days earlier. John had picked him and Sammy up from a friend's house dressed in a neat, no frills black suite. The tie hung loose around his neck while the bottle of dark orange liquid dangled even looser in his hand. When they'd reached the hotel that night his dad had fallen asleep before he could. Breathing relaxed; even in sleep he seemed upset. It had been the first night since they'd left their home that he hadn't watched his father cry himself to sleep.

The young boy stared at that same man. The father who had substituted pain for whiskey and a wife for a funeral.

"Daddy…"

John felt himself loosing grip on his emotions. His eyes flicked to the page and in an instant he was gone. Launching out of orbit like a rogue spacecraft and he wouldn't be coming down anytime soon.

"She's not coming back!"

Dean stumbled, a gasp of fear fresh on his lips. John flinched at his own voice but didn't stop. He couldn't stop. There was no whiskey to kill the pain. There would never be enough to kill the memories of Mary.

"Dean, this…" he waved the photo much too eagerly.

Dean's eyes welled with the rise of tears.

"Mommy is gone, son. I told you that."

Although his lips trembled, the young boy persisted. "But, she's coming back soon, wight? Den we can go back home?"

"No, she isn't. She's dead, Dean. Dead means we are never going to see her again. Do you understand that?"

Dean shuddered. The words weren't making sense. What was dead? All the four year old could put together was that he wasn't going to see his mom, not ever again.

"Yes" he whispered.

"Good. Now no more of this" John said, indicating the photo. "You are a Winchester. We are stronger than our emotions Dean. Do you know what that means?"

"Yes…"

John needn't say anymore. He knew his son understood. It was a hard lesson, but it had to be learnt.

Circling a hand about his son's waist, John helped to lift him inside the Impala. The seatbelt clicked protectively into place above the boys' chest before the back door slammed close.

Dean, hand pressed against the glass, watched, teary eyed as the artwork he'd spent the better part of an hour on fell in pieces to the asphalt below. His father stood, motionless above the scraps of paper. The child bit back a sob. He'd only wanted to make his hero smile. He'd only wanted what he'd had before. Now he wasn't sure if he'd ever have his happy family again.

The front door of the Impala opened. John slipped into placed behind the wheel. The engine turned over and as Dean brushed away the last of his tears they pulled out of the parking lot. In fifteen minutes they would be pulling out of Lawrence, Kansas and in another ten they would be on their way to a new life. A long journey; laden with unanswered questions and filled with hope.

And as the Impala turned the corner and disappeared from sight, the picture still remained. Broken pieces of crayon and paper littered burnt gravel. Pieces of a broken family, drawn the way an innocent four year old ever saw them. A still picture of a happy family. Of a caring mother and her two sons and their strong hero, no yet tarnished by that November night.


End file.
